


intention is in spite (and maybe you won't have a choice)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Mind Control, Morally bankrupt, Non Consensual, Rape Fantasy, Twincest, Verbal Humiliation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-20
Updated: 2007-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take what's already yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	intention is in spite (and maybe you won't have a choice)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal. Written for **nixwilliams**. Title from Joey Gray's "How Do You Fuck A Boy?" This is bad stuff. Read the tags for warnings.

The slap rings sharp through the air of the shitty little motel room, rings just like bells don't and then doubles back, colliding off the walls and bouncing right into his head. His chest heaves and the tears sting at his eyes.

"Please," he mumbles, his voice wet and hitching. "Oh god, please, I'll do anything you want."

Rough fingers grab at his hair, yanking hard and jerking his head around too quickly, without warning, and he wavers on his knees, nearly toppling over onto his side. The guy -- he doesn't even remember his name, he has no fucking idea what it is -- squeezes with his fingers, pulling and pulling at his hair until he chokes out a cry and looks up. He doesn't bother to look at the guy's eyes, just stares at his mouth, his lips and the stubble along his chin. His gut twists as the guy smiles this shark smile of even white teeth and pink gums as his upper lip curls back.

"You're going to do anything I want anyway."

The guy's hand lets loose of his hair and he sways forward, his scalp aching and itching, like a thousand little fires set just under his skin. And then he can't even feel it because the pain bursting out from his cheek as the guy backhands him across the face, snapping his head to the side and making his breath rush out hard, makes him blind to anything else.

The carpet is sticky under his knees and his sweat pools up everywhere his skin touches. The leather of the guy's belt digs into his wrists, cutting off circulation to his hands. His fingertips are numb, cold and heavy, and he flexes them, scratching at his tingling palms and savoring the slow drag of the motion like trying to swim in sneakers.

"Now say it."

"I." His breath hitches in his throat. "I want to suck your cock."

"Say you want me to fuck your mouth," the guy says, reiterating his earlier demand, his twisted Lee Press-On desire.

He gasps and closes his eyes, his eyelashes wet with tears and sweat. His shoulders shake and his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip, spit stinging his busted lip. "I want you to fuck my mouth."

The guy lets out this deep chest groan and he feels himself shudder, opening his eyes with the metallic sound of the guy's zipper and watching with careful, heavy-lidded eyes as jeans and boxers are shoved down and shaken off. Watching as the guy stands naked in front of him, naked and sweating and commanding things he doesn't even want.

Shit, he could come just from this.

The guy's cock is hard, red and fat and ready, and surrounded by a thatch of dark, wiry curls. He watches him give himself a couple strokes, slipping thumb and squeezing fist, before stepping up closer, so close Ansem can smell him, musk and male and heat. His stomach lurches, lust pooling and pulling at his gut and a rush of wet to his mouth.

"Open up."

He whines in the back of his throat, desperate and pathetic, his shoulders curling in and pulling hard at his bound wrists. "Please don't do this."

One of the guy's hands grabs his hair again and the other smacks hard at the side of his head, so hard his teeth fucking rattle. "Open your mouth, you pathetic little bitch, or I'll make you wish you had."

The side of his mouth twists up but he checks himself just as quick, slipping the smirk loose like a ribbon from a perfectly wrapped birthday present and letting the heavy, breathy sounds rack his body as he shuts his eyes and lets his mouth fall open, all slow and deliberate movement.

The guy's cock nudges at the corner of his mouth, drags over his bottom lip, and he squeezes his eyes tighter and tries to keep his tongue from slipping up to lick over the wet tip, to taste him. Precome makes it slippery against his skin, makes it slippery on his tongue when the guy finally pushes between his lips, moaning loud at the contact, fingers tensing in his hair as Ansem's tongue rubs up along the underside.

It's shallow pushes like hips twitching at first and he just uses his tongue, slipping and licking, and each time the guy pulls back, pulls out, he leans in a little further, following with wet lips and an open mouth.

"Oh, fuck, that's it," the guy mumbles, his voice sounding drugged, words drawling together and mixing up in his mouth, his cock pressing against Ansem's mouth as Ansem's tongue pushes and teases at the slit. "Suck it now. Show me how good you are at it."

He sucks hard and wet, sloppy pops of suction as the guy's hips edge back and forth blending perfectly with the loud panting curses from the guy's mouth. The guy's free hand slips down to his cheek, rubbing at the wetness there with his knuckles before sliding even lower and pressing against the corner of Ansem's mouth, the pads of his fingers touching to his cock as it slips in and out, marking the progress. Each press pushes further and further into his mouth, further back over his tongue, quicker and faster each time, until his nose is bumping against the soft curve of the guy's undefined stomach and he's leaning forward into it, begging with his mouth.

The guy pushes in hard, the tip of his cock touching the back of Ansem's throat and he gags hard once, twice. His shoulders jerk and his eyes water, his vision blurring as he looks up, and the way it isn't really makes him groan and blink, fat crocodile tears running down his cheeks. The guy does it again, pushing in too hard too far, but he's ready for it this time and doesn't bother pretending like he's not. His breath is harsh in and out of his nose and the noisy sounds from his mouth, wet tongue and lips, suction and slide, fill up his head like the best idea he's ever had.

"Yeah," the guy mumbles, groaning and gripping suddenly at the back of his head with both hands, sliding his cock forward and back between Ansem's lips. "Yeah, you fucking love this, you can't get enough, take it all, take it."

The man in his dreams, the yellow-eyed man, said to take what's already yours, take everything they've got, twist them and bend them and crumble them up to bits until they're nothing but dust and loss. He said to practice all the time, practice every day, every second possible, to hone his skill, his _gift_ , because Andy would need the help. Because Andy would need _his_ help to get where he was supposed to be, where he belonged in the world that had been shown him in his dreams, that slipping fiery future forever.

He'd had started out small, little words here and there, little suggestions, just testing the waters, just nudging them into doing what it was obvious they already wanted to do, but then he got bigger, got smarter and stronger and more confident, and expanded his horizons, branched out to pushing and shoving and _forcing_ his own wants, gritting it out through bitten teeth. And when that was easy, simple, he'd stopped using words all together. Because, the man said, his words could be taken from him, his tongue and his lips and his teeth, but nobody could ever take his mind, nobody could ever stop him if he could break them without even having to breathe a sound.

It'd hurt so fucking bad at first, like having flaming knives shoved into his brain through his eyeballs, but it got easier and easier and easier, until he just did it almost without even trying, until saying was as easy as breathing and thinking only made him see stars for a little while. Until distance didn't even matter and time could drag on for days, until he could _feel_ their heads open and naked as they milled around him, completely oblivious to anything but their own stupid, pointless lives and whatever he wanted them to do.

You've got the hiccups. You're going to trip on the stairs. You're going to tell your boss she's a fucking cuntrag. You're going to fake an orgasm that would put Meg Ryan out of a fucking job. You're going to punch that guy in the gut and he's going to punch you right back. You're going to call your girlfriend and tell her you cheated on her with her best friend because her blowjobs suck. You're going to lift your skirt and show us all what a fucking skank you are not wearing any panties even though there's kids around. You're going to follow me into my room when we finish talking and you're going to make me take off my clothes and you're going to force me to suck your dick and maybe you're gonna smack me around a little and maybe you'll fuck me up the ass but you're definitely not going to stop no matter how much I beg you, how much I cry and whine and whimper, because I want it and you know it because you can fucking _smell it on me_.

He's drooling around the guy's cock, spit slipping down his chin and coating his skin slimy wet, and when the guy pulls back, there's this shining string of spit stretching out between them. Stretching out and stretching out, connecting them, until it thins too much, snaps and falls loose, pulled too far like all palpable things will do eventually because the weakest things are the ones you can see, the ones you can hold in your hand. It's everything you can't see, the man said once, that's unbreakable.

His lips are numb when he licks at them, tingling and plush and overused. He breathes heavily and it almost sounds like wheezing. He flexes his shoulders and frowns, tilting his head to the side as he stares down hard at the floor, whispers and words in the back of his head.

His jockeys tent out ridiculously in front of him, a wet spot darkening the cotton where it's stretched over the head of his dick. He's so fucking hard, fucking _leaking_ precome he wants it so fucking bad, has since practically the second he laid eyes on the guy out in the motel parking lot. There'd just been something about him, about the hunch of his shoulders and the line his clothes made as he'd dug around in the trunk of his crappy rental car looking for who gives a shit what, something that had made Ansem walk up and then nearly choke on his own tongue when they guy looked over at him.

He was more than easy with his smile, all too-big eyes and too-big clothes, five-day stubble and that lazy stoner laugh, looking just enough like somebody else, close enough, that it didn't matter that his hair was the wrong color and his eyes were the wrong color and his skin wasn't quite the right shade of milk and he was just a little too tall and he folded back the sleeves of his jacket like a complete jackass. Looking just close enough that Ansem had to wonder if this was a test or maybe a present.

The guy's fingers twist in his hair, yanking hard and around before giving him a shove and sending him toppling over onto the floor. With his wrists still bound behind his back, he lands on his neck, grunting and biting down on the soft inside of his cheek as his vision goes red and then booms white behind his eyelids. He groans and tries to shifts, tries to get his weight off his face, but the guy's falling down to his knees behind him before he can barely get an inch along. His breath huffs out hard against the carpet and bloody spit wets his lips. He forces his eyes open, the guy a vague sort of blurred blob just beyond his line of sight. There's a wad of dried, chewed bubble gum stuck to the underside of the box spring, right there on the edge like they didn't even try to hide it, some kind of blue raspberry looking shit.

"You want to get fucked, don't you? Yeah, you love it, don't you?" The guy's voice is rough, panting and strained, and hands rub and squeeze roughly at his ass through his underwear for a second before fingers are slipping up under the waistband to haul them down over the curve of his ass. The guy's hands pull at his cheeks, spreading him apart until it hurts, spreading him open for god and everybody, as thumbs slide down down down, rubbing and pressing at his hole until his breath is stuttering out, his shoulders rolling as his eyes fucking _cross_ and his hips jerk involuntarily. "Oh, _fuck_. Yeah, you want it so bad. Fucking slut, fucking cockslut, you want me in you so bad."

There's a wet mouth sound and then the guy spits, fucking _spits_ on him, right between his ass cheeks, and he has just enough time to remember to act surprised before the hard press of fingers are sliding through it, catching it up, and pushing into him. He twists and his eyes roll back, his breath shaped like a vowel as his body arches oddly, restrained, his shoulders pulling hard and going numb. His throat hitches and his whole body tingles hot as he squirms against the pressure. Lust pools in his gut and he tries to spread his knees further, to push back, but the guy's free hand on his ass holds him still, short fingernails digging into his skin viciously, the sting of it making the not quite slick slide even better.

It's hard to breathe like this, it feels like his chest can't expand, like his lungs are being crushed, it makes him light-headed and desperate and impossibly turned on all at once. He can hear himself, the noises he makes with every twist of the guy's fingers, the breathy needy sounds and the way his voice pitches up in his throat going in and out and around in his head, not even muffled where his mouth is half-pushed against the floor. The side of his face, his chest and his knees too, drag over the dirty carpet, back and forth, back and forth, as he moves against the fingers in his ass.

He's going to have rug burn like a motherfucker after this.

The guy groans out behind him and three fingers twisting at the knuckles shove up in him hard. Over and over again like he's going to just split and shatter open, crack apart. Like there'll be something else inside him when he does, something besides nothing and hate, besides dark empty missing pieces places.

Like one of those fucking Russian nesting dolls his grandma liked to collect, maybe.

"Look at you, you know just what to do," the guys says, his voice nothing but a low rumble. The fingers pull back, this slow drag of a twist out, and then the guy spits again and shifts behind him. One hand on the small of his back as the warm, blunt pressure of the guy's cock rubs up and down along the crack of his ass. "Let's see what else you know how to do."

"Please," he says, sobs it out like taking a punch to the chest, his lips wet with blood and spit, his voice even wetter. His nose is running and he rubs it against the floor, the carpet smells like rancid milk. The hands shudder against his skin, slipping back to just finger pressure, hesitating, resisting.

 _Oh, no, you don't_ , he thinks, pushing and dragging at whateverthefuckhisnameis's will, pushing down hard against the guy's urge to recoil and run away from what he's doing. His fingers flex behind his back and squeezes his eyes shut. _Too late to back out, too late to fight back. Too too late._

The guy's cock against his hole makes his eyes roll back behind his eyelids and he bears down against it, pressing back, opening up. The guy doesn't stop, just keeps pushing, pushing and pushing, until he's gasping and choking on his own breath, his eyes clenched so tight he's seeing stars and his chest squeezing like there's a vice on him. Pushing until his brain is babbling nonsense at both of them, cock so deep that he can feel the scratch of pubic hair pressing against his ass cheeks and it's impossible to even try to breathe.

The guy doesn't even wait, doesn't even pretend to take it easy, just pulls back and slams back in hard enough to knock his trapped breath right out of his chest. Then does it again and again, faster, harder, like some kind of fucked up wind-up toy. Each thrust makes him cry out, desperate and low like pain and lust all wrapped up together. His toes curl up and the muscles in his thighs shake and it's so good, so fucking good, he could cry.

The guy grabs the belt at his wrists, yanking up and back and it feels like his shoulders are going to just pop right out of socket, rip out and snap off just like that G.I. Joe he had when he was kid. He pulls against it, twisting and arching as he rubs his face against the floor, bloody spit smearing across his cheek.

His world is streamlined down to this, just this, the stink of the carpet and the heat clinging to his skin, the slap of hips against his ass and the pain in his shoulders, the burning stretch slide of cock and the shock of the guy hitting his prostate right on too hard, the harsh sounds of fucking, curses and heavy breaths, and the power that courses under his skin and in his head.

He hears himself make this noise, almost like growling, brutal like an animal, and he can practically feel the command hidden inside it reverberate through the guy's body, shaking him like a fucking ragdoll in an earthquake. And then the guy is letting loose of the belt and leaning down over him, across him, crushing his arms to his back. His shoulders burn at the joints and he hopes they'll bruise as the rasp of stubble and wet mouth move over his spine, just below his shoulder blade, over his straining bicep. The guy's hand snakes around under him, fingers wrapping around his dick, fucking him and jerking him off in time.

"Come on, bro, come on," the guy's voice stutters and jumps, short of breath and too deep, words all awkward and dead in his mouth but close enough. "You gonna come on my cock? I know you love it when I fuck you. I know you want it just like this."

Fantasy and reality twist and slam together in his head, making shudder and jerk and groan out the name that lives on the back of his tongue, in the back of his head, all the time. All the fucking time.

" _Yeah_ ," the voice mumbles, moaning, tongue and teeth over his skin. "Yeah, show me how you want me."

So he does. His forehead pressed hard to the floor, spit and sweat and blood on his tongue and the stink of the carpet burning his nose. His knees slipping as his spine goes whiplash jackknife, his hips jerking between the hand working his dick and the cock pushing up deep in his ass. He comes hard, impossibly hard, gasping like crying, pulsing hot like straight from the heart all over the floor, the guy's fingers spreading sticky wet over his cock with each pass.

He shudders even as his orgasm winds down, panting against the floor, his own breath coming up hot and humid on his face. The guy's hand slides off his cock, slipping wetly over his hip, little whining moans pressed right up against his skin making him lick at his lips and rub his face against the disgusting carpet, twist his head to the side and relax his bones, slipping his hips back and his shoulders forward. The guy keeps moving, the same erratic pace, shuddering and jerking, fucking _humping_ him like a dog.

Little shocks of pleasure shoot through him, making his softening cock twitch, making his breath catch and body twist lazily, and he exhales. "You can come now."

It's like pulling the ripcord on a parachute, letting him come, an almost instant reaction. The guy jerks against him like he's been shot, his hips slamming forward and sticking, chest arching up off Ansem's back, as he groans and shakes, uncontrolled, uncontrollable, but never within his control anyway.

Never.

The guy slumps against him, spent and shaking, heaving breaths taking in the sex-scented air like his lungs are afraid it's going to disappear.

His mouth tastes like blood and he moans a little as the guy shifts and his cock slips out, sticky and slimy with come that slips down down down. He breathes out, and blanks his mind.

It takes a second, a couple heartbeats, a couple breaths, and then it hits. The guy lurches back, jerking and flailing like he suddenly found himself hugging a grizzly bear.

"Oh Jesus. _Oh Jesus_ , are you okay? Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I--"

"Shut up," he mutters, rolling his eyes and pushing himself up onto his shoulders. The guy's mouth clamps shut with an audible click of teeth. "Undo the belt."

Fumbling fingers unfasten the belt, pulling it loose and free, and his arms slip over his sides like they're broken, his hands and foreams gone numb but the muscles in his shoulders on fucking _fire_. He winces, clenching his hands into awkward fists and flexing his fingers for a minute before pushing himself up off his face and back onto his knees. He pulls up his underwear slowly, letting the waistband drag over his skin while he stares down at the splatters of his come seeping into the dirty carpet. When he stands up, one hand on the bed and the other on his knee, his legs shaking hard and the slimy burn of his ass making his eyebrows furrow, he makes sure his feet step around and over his mess, intent to let it dry and add to the reeking stickiness, to stay just like that forever.

When he turns around, the guy is just staring up at him, on his knees still because he's _weak_ , because he's _nothing_ , because he can't do anything unless he's told. He stares up at him, naked and covered in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and his face twisted up in misery but his lips pressed tight together. Ansem tilts his head to the side and rubs his fingers over his mouth, over the little track of blood dried to the corner of his mouth. The guy flinches back.

"Hey, hey, it's all right," he says, slipping his hands down to the sides of the guy's face, looking right into his wrong-colored eyes, thumbs dragging over his trembling lips. "Come on, bro, let's see a smile, huh? You just got laid. Everything's cool. Everything's okay. Can you say that for me? Can you say everything's okay?"

"Everything's..." The guy's voice trails off, his eyes going wide and a sharp intake of breath on his lips, shuttering and frantic, his mouth moving under Ansem's thumbs. "I'm so sorry. I tried to... I... You said no and I just--"

He frowns hard, pressing against the guy's bottom lip until his thumbnails go white. The cherry red anger that lives coiled up like a snake deep down inside him, in the cracked and ripped up places that nobody can see, churns and twists and spreads out wide, spiking up and rushing out all at once, and there's nothing he can do about it. And he thinks he could make the guy just... _stop breathing_ and nobody would give a shit.

"I told you to _smile_ ," he grinds out, and it's like a fight, like fighting as he pushes with his mind and the guy just gasps and chokes on his resistance. But then the guy does, he breaks, snaps like a twig, and he smiles. He smiles and smiles and smiles, just like that. And just as quick, the rage slips back down inside him, sated, deep and dark and burning. Ansem smiles back. "That's good. You see, it's okay? Everything's okay. You know what you're going to do after this? You're going to go back to your room and crawl up in your bed and you're going to sleep and sleep and when you wake up, this is all gonna be just a dream you had. Just some messed up little piece of your subconscious peeking out and telling you to do this fucked up shit to people you don't even know. But everything's going to be okay. You're never going to tell anybody, nobody's ever going to know, and everything's going to be okay. You understand what I'm saying?"

The guy's breath hitches but his smile doesn't falter. "Yeah."

Ansem tongues at the still-oozing bite on the inside of his cheek, pushing and licking it up, the coppery tang of blood sharp like knives, and then presses his mouth hard to the side of the guy's face before shoving him away. The guy lurches back, flailing and falling flat on his back, naked but, oh, he's smiling, chest heaving and shoulders shaking as his breath sucks in and out. It's so fucking stupid looking, he can't help the laugh that bubbles up out of his throat. "Get dressed."

The guy scrambles to his feet, grabbing up his shirt as he goes and pulling it on with shaking hands before snatching up his underwear and jeans. His wallet falls out of the back pocket of his jeans and onto the floor and he makes this pathetic, choked little sound in the back of his throat. Ansem sighs and rolls his eyes, reaching down for the wallet and muttering _everything's going to be okay, everything's okay_ and other pointless shit under his breath. The guy's breathing slows, soothes, pacified and controlled, as he slips his underwear up his legs, then his jeans, in this almost robotic way.

He takes the cash from the guy's wallet, he doesn't need it but whatever, then glances at his ID.

Alan.

Alan Matthew Webber, that's his name.

Close enough.

"Thanks." He tosses the bills down onto the bedside table next to his own wallet and then hands the empty wallet to him. "I know you don't mind a loan, right, bro?"

"You can have it, I don't care," Alan says, shaking hard in his over-large jacket like the air conditioning actually works and it's not ten thousand fucking degrees in here. He stares at Ansem with shiny, desperate, terrified eyes and this big, fake smile stretching his lips too tight over his whitewhite teeth.

Too bad, so sad.

"You can leave now," he says, shoving with his mind and reaching up to wipe away a bead of sweat sliding down the side of his neck. He needs a shower. _Get the fuck out so I can take a fucking shower._

"Okay," Alan says, turning and tripping over his own feet to get out, get away.

He squints as the too-bright, late afternoon light beams right in through the quick-open-slam-shut door and then he turns away, yawning and stretching his arms behind his back. His left shoulder pops and it sends a shiver up his spine. There's a headache building in his temples but he ignores it, he's still got those three bottles of Vicodin in his duffle bag from that sweet little lady pharmacist who just couldn't get enough of him or his cock, he'll be so fucked up in an hour he won't even notice his brain trying to shatter apart in his skull. Glancing over at the bedside table, the alarm clock with its cracked plastic front reads 4:13. Or maybe 4:18. Either way, he has plenty of time to grab a shower and a little something to eat at that diner across the street and still make it to Guthrie before sundown.

Guthrie.

 _Andy_.

When he smiles, lazy and fucked out, the split in his lip burns like a brand.


End file.
